


A Star Spangled Thanksgiving

by SeeBeeStrellacott



Series: Star Spangled [3]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Beer, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff without Plot, Food Porn, No Angst, Strike and Robin in America, Strikesgiving | Cormoran Strike November 2020 Event, Thanksgiving, just happiness, purely self-indulgent, who needs a plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27578777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeBeeStrellacott/pseuds/SeeBeeStrellacott
Summary: Strike and Robin celebrate Thanksgiving in Oklahoma with their friends Erin and Chris Waters.  A sequel to Star Spangled.There is absolutely no plot or purpose to this fic, other than just some fluffy fun and self-indulgence on my part.  Enjoy!
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: Star Spangled [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1820437
Comments: 32
Kudos: 24
Collections: Strikesgiving 2020





	1. Birthday Surprises

**Author's Note:**

> I have merged the canon universe of post-Troubled Blood and the one I created in Star Spangled. So please suspend belief here and pretend that they both happened. 😉

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strikesgiving prompts 1-3:  
> "close the door"  
> "I’m not going anywhere"  
> "I feel like I can’t breathe"

Strike was lounging on his bed, shirtless and trousers unbuckled, looking over some recent case notes.

  
“Who was that?” he asked, absently chewing on the end of his pen as Robin came back into the bedroom, dropping her mobile into the pocket of her dressing gown.

  
“Erin. She and Chris have invited us to stay with them for their Thanksgiving.”

  
“When is that?” Strike asked, still looking at his notes.

  
“End of this month. When she found out it’s also your birthday, she said she wouldn’t take no for an answer and that you could consider the airfare your birthday gift.”

  
Strike looked up as Robin slid in next to him, raking an appreciative eye over her partially clothed form.

  
“Wow, that’s nice of them. That’s not exactly cheap. What do you reckon?”

  
Robin looked at him, slightly taken aback. He didn’t normally like it when people made a big deal over his birthday, and such generous gifts usually made him uncomfortable. And it was very unlike him to skive off work so easily. “Well we only have two cases on, once you close the door on that one tomorrow. I’m sure the other three could handle things for a week or two.”

  
Strike grinned and leaned in for a soft kiss. “That’s what I was thinking, too.”

  
Robin accepted his kiss skeptically, still looking at him in surprise.

  
“What?” he asked.

“Nothing, I just didn’t expect it to be that easy.”

  
“I can’t take my woman on holiday? I think it sounds fun. I enjoyed myself the last time…”

  
“You’re just thinking about the beer and food, aren’t you?” Robin teased.

  
“Maybe,” he grinned back at her, and this time Robin accepted his kiss eagerly, opening for him.

  
It had been a few months since they had returned from their case in America as more than just colleagues, but they were still very much in that honeymoon stage of the relationship. Robin still wore the fake ring he had given her, though on her right hand. Her excuse was that it was convenient sometimes to be able to switch it to her left hand if she ever wanted to avoid male attention. The truth was that it had become a cherished treasure, even if it was fake.

  
Tossing his notes aside, Strike untied the sash on the dressing gown – which was actually his, but he much preferred it on her – and pulled Robin closer to him.

  
Strike was excited about the idea of returning to “where it all began.” Their time spent in the U.S. that summer had shown him how much he enjoyed simple domesticity with Robin. He had once thought that all he wanted was freedom, but he knew now that was simply a byproduct of past trauma. Robin was unlike any other woman he had been with. For one thing, she was more _enjoyable_ than any other woman he had been with. Perhaps it was a side effect of being best friends in addition to lovers, but he craved her company at all times. Far from feeling drained by maintaining a romance with her, he felt refreshed when he was with her. Her presence made everything brighter and more pleasant. His flat felt warmer, his bed more comfortable, and the silence more peaceful.

  
They hadn’t technically moved in with each other yet, but they had hardly spent a night apart since they returned to London in July. They had gone to the office after their plane had landed so they could sort out the case files. After a meal of kebabs eaten in the darkening office, Strike had asked Robin to stay. She smiled and leaned into his kiss, murmuring, “I’m not going anywhere.” And indeed she hadn’t.

  
Their clothes had gradually migrated to each other’s flats as they kept up the pretense that they weren’t living together. But there were now two toothbrushes by his sink, a purple razor next to his, silky knickers in the drawer next to his boxers, and a box of tampons in the cabinet. Far from feeling suffocated or that his territory was being poached, Strike had gladly moved his things aside to make room for more of Robin’s. They spent some nights in her flat, but more and more, they tended to stay in his. Strike wondered if they should just make it official, but he wasn’t sure if either of them were ready for that step. He inwardly rolled his eyes at the irony and refocused his attention back on Robin’s lips.

  
***

Strike sat back in bed, taking a long pull from a cigarette. He usually smoked by the window or downstairs for Robin’s benefit, but he was feeling too sleepy and sated to bother getting up. He knew she didn’t mind anyway. Though he tried not to compare her to other women, sometimes it was too obvious not to notice. She never made a fuss over his disgusting habit, for instance; unlike Charlotte, who would dramatically choke and cough, and complain, “Ugh, I feel like I can’t breathe!” Perversely, this had always made him less considerate when smoking around her, and Robin’s lack of complaining had made him more considerate around her. As the smoke filled his lungs, he was grateful for the woman beside him, who accepted every part of him, faults and all.

  
“What do you think about leaving on the twentieth and coming back on the thirtieth?” Robin asked as she drew lazy circles in his chest hair. “Do you really think the rest of the group can manage ten days without us?”

  
“Probably. It’s not like we’ll be totally out of reach.”

  
“So those dates are okay?”

  
“Yeah, that sounds alright.” Strike stubbed out his cigarette and wrapped an arm around Robin, pulling her in closer. He felt her grin against his chest.

  
“Good, because I already gave Erin our information and she’s booking our tickets right now. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she had already booked them when she called to invite us.”

  
Strike chuckled in agreement. Pushy as she was, he had to admit that he really did like Erin. The only person he had ever known whose generosity could rival that of the overly friendly American was possibly Robin, or perhaps Dave Polworth, after everything his long-time friend had done for his aunt and uncle.

  
“As long as she knows not to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me…” Strike murmured.

  
“You know if I tell her that she’ll make a point to do it.”

  
Strike chuckled again, “You’re probably right. Don’t tell her then.”

  
“Are you done with your case notes, or are you staying up a little longer?”

  
“Nah, I’m done.”

  
“Good, I’m sleepy and I’m taking over for Hutchins early in the morning.” Robin yawned widely as she rolled over.

  
“C’mere,” Strike whispered, pulling her hips towards him and tucking his body around hers.

  
It still amused Strike that he was the snuggler in the relationship. Robin like to cuddle, of course, but wanted her space when it was time to sleep. He was normally the same way himself, but he found that his sleeping preferences had changed since Robin had entered his bed. Robin curled onto her side, sticking out her bum in a partial cuddling position. Strike smiled as he nestled against her lower half, her torso folded away from him to create some space. He scooted closer and wrapped his arm around her stomach, pressing his chest into her back.

  
“Let me just hold you for a little bit.”

  
Robin grinned and snuggled back into him. “OK, but just for a minute. You know I get too hot sleeping like this.”

  
Within minutes Strike was snoring in her ear. Robin carefully scooted over and pulled down the duvet, letting the cool air of the drafty attic soothe her over heated skin, a light sheen of sweat coating her back where she had been stuck to Strike’s warm chest. Looking back over her shoulder, she smiled as she saw his mouth droop into a slight frown at the absence of her soft form, though his snores never faltered.

  
***

“What’s this?” Strike let himself into Robin’s flat using the key she had given him and was drawn upstairs to the kitchen by the wonderful smell of curry cooking. Above the table floated two golden balloons, a “4” and a “0”, along with a couple of wrapped presents.

  
“My birthday isn’t for a few days still.”

  
Robin turned to greet him with a kiss. She was wearing a blue and green striped apron that looked adorable on her.

  
“I know,” she said, “but I didn’t want to bring your gifts with us, so I just thought I’d give them to you early.”

  
She turned down the heat on the pan of curry and pulled Strike to the table to open his gifts. There was a box of Cornish pasties from the famous Chough Bakery, some Cornish fudge, and an empty jar. Robin was grinning and looking at him expectantly, so he examined the jar further. Tied around the lid with twine was a small tag that said “Fresh Cornish Sea Air.” Strike laughed and pulled her down for a kiss.

  
“That’s actually from Cornwall. Their website says it’s collected fresh daily. So now you’ll always have a nice sea breeze, wherever you go,” Robin said.

  
“Thank you, I love it.” He sampled her lips again until she pulled away to check the pan of curry. He wanted to unwrap one of the pasties, but didn’t want to cause offense with the delicious meal Robin was preparing, so he settled for a bit of fudge instead.

  
The curry was excellent, as was everything else Robin ever cooked. For dessert she produced two chocolate cupcakes with gooey, fudgy icing. She stuck a candle in Strike’s cupcake and lit it, reminding him to make a wish.

  
He smiled and said, “I already have everything I want,” and blew out his candle.


	2. Jet Lag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike and Robin finally make it to Tulsa after a frustrating stop in Atlanta. There's food and beer and fluff!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strikesgiving prompts 4-7:  
> did you hear that  
> are you finished with those  
> it's okay, you didn't know  
> hold my hand
> 
> I absolutely despise the Atlanta airport and will avoid it all costs.

Strike and Robin landed in Atlanta for a short layover. When they debarked from the plane, they were ushered down a long and crowded hallway towards customs. A rather grumpy TSA employee was shouting instructions about how to fill out their customs forms.

“Did you hear that?” Strike turned in frustration to Robin. His brain was foggy from the long flight, and he hadn’t expected to have instructions shouted at him as soon as his feet hit solid ground. 

“I don’t know, something about an app?” Robin turned to the closest TSA official, who was leaning against a wall staring off into space. “Excuse me, could you help us? What is it we’re supposed to do?”

The employee rolled her eyes and unhelpfully told them to download the TSA app or they would have to wait in an extremely long line.

Robin and Strike felt more confused, as they were already in an extremely long line. People in the line were randomly exiting the queue and bypassing all of the other waiting people. The TSA employees looked on and did absolutely nothing to prevent the entire queue from descending into chaos. Robin searched for the app, but her mobile had a very weak signal. Strike checked his watch. They now only had 45 minutes to make it to their connecting flight.

More and more people abandoned the queue, evidently having downloaded whatever app they were supposed to have had. Robin had given up on the weak signal and just hoped the line would move faster now that so many others were taking a different route. 

When they finally reached the front of the queue, another unhelpful employee pointed vaguely in the direction of self-check kiosks. There were many empty kiosks, and many confused looking travelers. The airport employees seemed to completely disregard both, as they ignored the looks of confusion and failed to direct travelers to available kiosks. 

Strike began to input their information into the kiosk. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, this is for American citizens!” he said in frustration. 

Robin looked around, aware of the need to hurry to their next flight. In the corner of the large room she saw another queue, with a sign that read, “All EU Passengers.” There had been no other signs, and none of the employees had bothered to point out to the passengers arriving from _London_ that there was a separate queue for non-Americans. Thankfully the line was short and seemed to be moving quickly. 

After getting their passports stamped by another employee who mumbled and seemed wholly unsatisfied with his job, they were ushered to yet another queue where they were asked if they had any items to declare.

“Isn’t this what we just fucking did?” Strike exclaimed. The employee ignored him and pointed vaguely in the direction of baggage carousels, where they were apparently supposed to collect their baggage and drop it off at another location.

“Christ, this is the most fucking inefficient system I’ve ever seen,” Strike complained loudly within earshot of the airport employees.

Robin urged him forward, “Just leave it, we need to hurry.”

By the time they had dropped off their bags to be rechecked and rushed to their gate, all the other passengers were already boarded on the plane and it was scheduled to leave with only minutes to spare. Slightly out of breath and stump aching from his mad dash, Strike sincerely hoped their luggage would make it onto the plane, though he didn’t have much faith.

***

Strike and Robin arrived in Tulsa at about two in the afternoon, tired, irritable, and relieved to have reached their final destination. Erin greeted them in the baggage claim, squealing and rushing forward to hug Robin. 

“Are you guys hungry?” Erin asked as she opened the back of the SUV for them to place their luggage, which had miraculously made it onto the plane with them.

“Always,” chuckled Strike. 

“There’s a great place you have to try downtown,” Erin said, instantly dropping into her role as tour guide. “It started as a food truck, but it was so popular that they ended up opening a couple of restaurants across town. Do you like Vietnamese?”

“Sounds great,” Strike said, easily appeased.

“Chris is at work, I suppose?” Robin asked.

“Yeah, he should be home about four. I’ve taken the rest of the afternoon off, so I’ll take you back to the house and let you get settled.”

After the relatively short drive towards the familiar Tulsa skyline, they parked in a block of charming old brick buildings just on the edge of the downtown area. Next to them was a small courtyard with trees still decked in gold and red leaves. An aged brick building in the courtyard had faded painted lettering that read “Tulsa Paper Company.”

Erin led them across the street to the restaurant on the corner. There was a large wolf head painted on the door, with the name Lone Wolf. The interior was very modern in black, silver, and cream. There was a wood paneled accent wall, and another accent wall covered in a street art style mural depicting a wolf. Exposed ductwork ran over head along the concrete ceiling, reminiscent of an old warehouse. Behind the counter was a shiny black tile wall with an ice cream cone done in neon lighting. 

“Their banh mi’s are amazing, and you have to try their kimchi fries,” Erin said. “Robin, would you maybe want to split a sandwich? They’re pretty big.”

“Yeah, ok. You can pick whatever, you know what’s good here.”

Strike ordered the Kung Pao Pork banh mi, and Erin ordered the Pesto Chicken banh mi for herself and Robin, as well as a large order of kimchi fries for them to share.

The sandwiches were indeed very large, and very flavorful. The bread was soft and fresh, and the pickled vegetables added a nice crunchy contrast. But the real star of the meal was the kimchi fries. The friends shared the huge pile of crunchy fries covered in cheese, house made pickles, jalapeno aioli, and house made spicy kimchi. It was an interesting combination of flavors that Robin definitely wouldn’t have put together herself, but she could see how the former food truck would have developed a cult following for them.

“Are you finished with those?” Strike asked as he stole a couple of Robin’s fries. She batted him away with her fork and traded him a couple of bites of her sandwich instead.

Once he had some food in his stomach, Strike’s exhaustion started to catch up with him. He yawned widely and stretched, wrapping an arm around Robin.

“Are you guys ready to go? I bet you could use some time to rest after all that travel,” Erin said, stuffing the last bite of her banh mi in her mouth.

Strike yawned again and nodded, very much looking forward to taking a nap with Robin in the large king sized bed in the Waters’ garage apartment. They drove the familiar route to the Waters’ house, though the road was now surrounded by brown, yellow, and red instead of the lush green of summer.

As they pulled up to the garage, Butter came trotting out of his barn to greet them. Robin drifted over to the fence to nuzzle his velveteen nose while Strike hauled their luggage out of the car. Robin gave the horse a quick kiss, promising to bring him a treat later.

The red, white, and blue that had adorned the garage apartment this summer had been replaced by the colors of autumn, with green, brown, orange, and red. A thick autumn-colored quilt was spread across the bed, and pumpkins and turkeys took the place of the previous Americana-themed decorations. Even the throw pillows on the sofa had been changed, which were now cream-colored, featuring embroidered and sequined turkeys and pilgrims. 

The day was a little warmer than Robin had expected, so she opened the window near the bed, letting in the nice breeze and the sound of rustling leaves. Strike set their luggage in the corner and wrapped his arms around Robin’s waist. Brushing her hair over one shoulder, he trailed light kisses over the back of her neck, causing her to giggle and lean back into his embrace.

“I thought you wanted to take a nap,” Robin giggled.

“After,” he murmured, running his fingers under her shirt to graze over the soft skin of her stomach.

***

A little after four in the afternoon, Strike and Robin were awoken by the sound of tires crunching over gravel drive. Robin peeked out of the window and saw Chris emerge from his truck, looking just as massive as she remembered him. He was wearing khaki colored trousers, a plaid button-down shirt, and a navy blue tie, with a black backpack slung over his shoulder. Robin realized that she didn’t actually know what he teaches. For some reason, she had assumed it was young children, but his attire suggested an older audience.

Strike grunted and wrapped an arm around Robin, cupping her breast and pressing into her skin. His chest hair tickled against her back. 

“We should probably get dressed and go over,” Robin said.

“After?” Strike chuckled as he kissed along her shoulder, rubbing his stubble against that spot at the base of her neck that drove her wild.

Robin giggled. “OK, but we’d probably better make it quick.”

“No problem,” he grinned against her skin as he pressed more firmly into her backside.

***

After Robin had showered and dressed, she tried to close the window, but it was stuck. 

“Bugger,” she muttered. “I. Can’t. Get. It.” Grunts punctuated her statement, as she tried to force the window closed.

Strike tried as well, but couldn’t get it to budge. He was afraid of forcing it too hard and breaking something.

“Probably just needs some lubrication,” he murmured.

Robin chuckled, “That’s what she said.”

“Robin Ellacott, get your mind out of the gutter,” Strike teased as he took her in his arms.

“You’ve corrupted me.”

“I can corrupt you again later, if you want.” Strike squeezed her arse to emphasize his point.

“Three times in one day? Sounds a bit chafey,” she teased back, giving him a quick kiss and stepping out of his embrace.

By the time they walked over to the main house, Chris was already halfway down his second beer and busy grilling burgers for dinner. The delicious smell of chargrilled meat wafted from the back of the house, calling to the hungry detectives. 

Chris and Strike embraced in the typical male handshake-half-hug before Chris picked up Robin in a crushing embrace and spun her in a circle. 

“Beer’s in the cooler,” Chris said to Strike. 

Strike selected a tall silver can with what he recognized as Tulsa’s Golden Driller drawn in the style of DaVinci’s Vitruvian Man. The label read “Renaissance Gold.”

“Finally, a beer that’s actually a pint!” Strike said, examining the can and popping it open.

“Oh, yeah. All Renaissance’s stuff is a full pint. I’ve also got a few of their Octoberfest left in there. It’s one of my new favorites. The owner actually studied beer making in Germany.”

Chris drained the last of his Indian Wheat, also by Renaissance, and flipped the burgers. Erin emerged from the house wearing leggings and a baggy sweatshirt, carrying a six-pack of rather colorful cans to put in the cooler. She handed one to Robin. It was pink and had little watermelons all over it. Robin looked at it skeptically – something about watermelon and beer just didn’t seem to go.

“Trust me,” Erin said, “You’ll love it.” And she opened one for herself and folded her legs up under her on one of the padded outdoor sofas. 

Robin sat across from her and confessed, “I opened one of the windows in the apartment, and now I can’t get it closed.”

Erin craned her neck to look unnecessarily towards the garage. “Oh yeah, that one always sticks. Chris can go fix it later.”

“Sorry,” Robin said to Chris as he sat next to his wife.

“It’s okay, you didn’t know. It just needs a little lube.” And he waggled his eyebrows at Erin as Robin and Strike looked at each other and giggled conspiratorially. 

They ate outside, since it was such a nice evening. The detectives talked about their recent cases – Robin had finally told Erin their true professions, the latter pretending to be hurt that her friend had spied on her. Robin learned that Chris taught geometry, which she found rather surprising.

“Don’t let the pretty face fool you,” he said. “I’ve got brains and brawn. I’m the total package.” And he winked at his wife, who rolled her eyes fondly. 

“You’re full of it tonight,” she said in mock exasperation and got up to get another drink.

“I’m trying to put my mack down,” Chris teased, and he pinched her bum as she moved away from him.

“You could start with holding my hand,” she muttered wryly. As Erin tucked herself back into his side, Chris wrapped his arm her and laced his fingers with hers in a much more traditional display of affection.

Erin looked across at Robin and shook her head, chuckling. “Don’t get married, Robin. Just stay engaged forever. The minute you make it official, they turn into 13 year old boys again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the food and beer they enjoy:  
> [Lone Wolf](https://lonewolftulsa.com/)  
> [Renaissance](https://www.renaissancebeer.com/#/)  
> [Nothing's Left](https://www.nothingsleftbrew.co/)


	3. Target Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike and Robin do some sightseeing. Robin shows off yet another hidden talent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strikesgiving prompts 8-13:  
> can we just stay here  
> I can’t believe you remembered  
> I don’t plan to stop  
> tell me again  
> we have to be quiet  
> do you believe me 
> 
> TW - there's talk of and use of weapons in this chapter

Erin and Chris both had to work for the next two days, so Robin and Strike were left to explore Tulsa on their own. Erin, of course, had left them a list of “can’t miss attractions”. They started first with the Gilcrease Museum, which held a large collection of Native American art. Though interesting, it wasn’t the style that typically appealed to Robin. 

She was more interested in the gardens. Though most of the flowers had already died off for the winter, the grounds were still beautiful, painted with gold, orange, and red. They sat on a bench in a rough wooden gazebo overlooking the small pond, the cool autumn breeze ruffling their hair. Strike rested his hand on the inside of Robin’s thigh as she leaned her head against his shoulder. They both breathed deeply, relishing the smell of crisp leaves and unpolluted air.

“Can we just stay here forever?” Robin sighed and Strike grunted in agreement.

Eventually they did leave, however – after many kisses and whispered words, witnessed only by the trees and water lilies - and made their way to a coffee shop that Erin had suggested called Double Shot. The building was a converted 200 year old barn. The wooden posts inside were obviously crafted by hand, as you could clearly see every chisel mark in the roughhewn wood. 

Though Erin had insisted that they try the pour over coffee, Robin ordered a late, which came with a decorative swirl of steamed milk. Strike took Erin’s advice and ordered a large pour over of the Bambito Bourbon Natural. Strike thought it was a lot of ceremony for a cup of coffee, but was pleased with the heavenly aroma wafting up from his cup.

They chose seats in the converted loft, which had a cozy little corner with large squashy leather armchairs. Their coffee were served at the perfect drinking temperature. Strike resisted the urge to add sugar or cream to his coffee, as Erin insisted that it should only be drunk black. As usual, she was completely right. The coffee had a soft, fruity flavor, and was easily the best cup he had ever had. 

“I wish I had one of those pasties you got me right now,” Strike said, thinking that one of the fruit pasties would go perfectly with the coffee.

“Well why didn’t you get a muffin then?”

“Not the same as a Cornish pasty. I still can’t believe you remembered that Chough is my favorite.”

“Everything is your favorite,” Robin teased.

Strike chuckled, “You’re not wrong.”

“So what do you want to do after this?” Robin asked.

“Take a nap.” Strike drained the last of his coffee.

“How could you possibly be tired after all that caffeine?”

Strike tickled his fingertips over her knee. “I didn’t say I actually wanted to sleep.”

“You’re insatiable,” Robin giggled, eliciting a smirk from her lover.

***

Back in the garage apartment, Strike was interrupted by the sound of his mobile ringing. He lifted his head from Robin’s neck and reached for his phone.

“Cormoran, don’t stop,” Robin moaned.

He switched the phone to silent. “I don’t plan to stop,” he said before capturing her lips in a searing kiss.

***

They spent the rest of the afternoon lounging in bed or on the sofa, reading and watching TV. It was calm and peaceful without the constant noise of construction on Denmark Street, or the sounds of traffic. 

The detectives were watching a movie on the sofa, though there was more snogging than movie watching. 

“Tell me again why we don’t live in the country?” Strike murmured.

Robin’s heart fluttered at “we” and “live”. Though they practically lived together now, they hadn’t really talked about the direction their relationship was taking. They had hardly spent a night apart from each other since returning home to London, but Robin wasn’t sure if they were ready to make it official. _It would make more sense than having two rent payments_ , she thought. But she was also afraid her partner would resent the loss of his independence. And if she were being honest with herself, she wasn’t sure she was ready to relinquish her independence either. 

She swallowed her disquiet and teased, “For one thing, I feel like we have to be quiet here. Like we have to whisper. But also because there’s more crimes to solve in London.”

Strike hummed in agreement. 

“Do you ever miss Cornwall?”

“Not living there, no. It’s not my home anymore, you know? For me, home has always been more about being with the people I love, not where I live. I like what we have in London,” he whispered as his lips traced a line along her ear.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I like what we have too.”

Robin captured his mouth with hers, leaning back onto the sofa and pulling him down with her.

***

Chris insisted on taking Strike turkey hunting Saturday morning, saying that, “It’s just not Thanksgiving without a turkey hunt.”

It was only bow season, and Strike had never shot a compound bow, given that they weren’t exactly standard military issue. So Chris set up a target in the backyard on Friday evening so they could practice. 

Strike had been surprised to find that Chris had a small armament in the garage. He had several rifles hanging from a rack on the wall, in addition to a couple compound bows. 

“Is this… legal?” he asked, indicated the assortment of weapons.

“Course it is. Second Amendment, baby!”

“You don’t have to keep them in a locked safe or anything?”

“Nah, no reason to. We don’t have any kids, so it’s not like anyone’s going to happen across them.”

“I’ve never understood the American fascination with guns,” Strike muttered and Chris just grinned.

“Well these are all for hunting. I’ll agree with you that there’s not a reason for anyone to have an assault rifle. But I do have a Glock upstairs for protection.”

Strike chuckled, “What could you possibly need protection against?”

“You’d be surprised,” Chris said as he took the compound bows down from their place on the wall. “I like knowing that Erin has it if I’m not home.”

The women were settled in the yard, keen on watching Strike’s bow training. Robin sidled over as Strike was struggling to pull back the bow. 

“You’ll want to straighten this arm, and keep this elbow parallel with the ground,” she commented. 

“You’ve shot a compound bow before?” Chris asked.

Robin nodded. “Yeah, my dad had one. He taught all the boys how to shoot it. I hounded him about it until he finally taught me too.”

“Are you any good?” Strike asked, amused.

Robin grinned at him, “What do you think?”

Strike grinned back and teased, “Oh yeah? Prove it.”

“What do you pull?” Chris asked.

“I can do fifty,” Robin said, looking smug.

Chris’s eyes widened and he adjusted the settings on the other bow for her. 

“There you go, that’s on fifty. Let’s see what you got.”

Robin took the bow and stepped up to the target. She fitted an arrow, pointed the bow, and drew back the string in one smooth, easy motion. She released the arrow and it hit just to the side of the target.

“I think the idea is to hit that big circle,” Strike teased. 

Robin made a face at him. “I’m sighting it in.”

She fitted another arrow, took aim, and released. The arrow flew steady and true, directly into the center of the target.

“Do you believe me now?” Robin grinned at him cheekily.

Chris laughed, “Goddamn, girl, maybe I should take you hunting instead.”

Robin was still looking smugly at him. Strike raised an eyebrow at her and grinned, feeling a distinct tightening in his trousers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the museum they enjoy:  
> [ Gilcrease Museum](https://gilcrease.org/)


	4. Happy Birthday Cormoran Strike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy 40th Birthday Cormoran Strike!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strikesgiving prompts 14 - 18:  
> don't look at me like that  
> I didn't mean to  
> don't get up, I'll do it  
> keep it  
> I'm flattered you're jealous

Strike and Chris did not end up going turkey hunting the following morning, as Strike was certain he would not be able to trudge through semi-sodden fields on his false leg, in addition to the fact that he never could get the hang of the compound bow. 

And so instead, the four went for a nice birthday brunch at the Philbrook Museum, which Strike was pleased to find was a buffet. He ate his fill of smoked salmon, prime rib, barbeque short ribs, potatoes, and eggs. Strike had been eyeing the dessert bar, but instead, the wait staff brought out a small Italian cream cake with a candle on top and sang “Happy Birthday” to the detective.

Strike could feel his face flaming, though he wasn’t entirely displeased by the fanfare that Robin and his friends had put on for his birthday. Nevertheless, he raised an eyebrow at Robin before blowing out his candle.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she warned teasingly. Strike continued to do exactly that, waiting for her to confess. “I didn’t mean to, Erin got me drunk and it slipped out.” 

Strike chuckled and blew out his candle.

Robin turned to Erin, “I wasn’t supposed to tell you that he hates being sung to.”

“Well nobody _likes_ it,” Chris chimed in. “But it gives everyone the chance to make you miserable for your birthday, which is all we really want to do anyway.”

Strike grunted a laugh and split the cake into four small pieces for everyone to share. The cake was soft and moist, and the icing was rich and smooth, not overly sweet. Despite the ceremony with which it was presented, it was the perfect ending to a wonderful meal.

***

They spent the afternoon at large park near the river called The Gathering Place.

“Dumb fucking name,” Chris muttered as he pulled into the parking lot.

“Yes, yes, we know, you think it should have been named something else,” Erin rolled her eyes.

“I mean, really! The Gathering Place? It sounds like we’re going to a cult meeting or something.”

The park was packed, given that it was such a nice day for a Saturday in November. Most of the park was designed for children, with towering playgrounds designed to look like castle turrets, but there were quite a few adults climbing through the suspended tunnels as well. There was a small zip line, which had an extremely long line. 

The foursome made their way to the boathouse. Robin was surprised to find that the water sports had not been closed for the season yet. Several people were rowing across the pond in paddle boats or kayaks. They stopped for a beer in the boathouse bar, which featured mostly local beers brewed in Tulsa. Afterwards, they explored they collection of oddities in the boathouse, though there were too many children running about for Strike’s taste. He glowered at a pair of twin boys who were running unchecked through the building, their parents completely oblivious to their obnoxious behavior.

Erin wanted to play on the swings, so they made their way to the swing section, but it was overrun with children, of course. So instead they strolled along the path lined with native wildflowers to the patio overlooking the pond. They sat in large, squashy rocking chairs, watching ducks swim across the pond and enjoying each other’s company.

“We’re taking you out for your birthday tonight, and we won’t take no for an answer,” Erin said. “I know you don’t like a big fuss for your birthday, but this is your 40th, so we _have_ to make a _bit_ of a fuss!” Erin’s words tumbled out of her in her typical excited, chatty fashion. “I hope you like steak, because there’s this great steak restaurant we love, and we’ve already made reservations.”

“Of course he likes steak!” Chris exclaimed, causing Strike to chuckle. 

“Steak is great, but really, you don’t have to do anything special,” Strike said. “You’ve done enough already just flying us here.”

“Nonsense,” Erin said. “Like I said, this is a special birthday, so it’s going to be special. Besides, Chris has been looking for an excuse to eat there.”

A vendor selling hot chocolate, despite the unusually warm day, pulled his cart up behind them. 

“Ooo, that sounds really good,” Robin said.

“Don’t get up, I’ll get it,” Erin said. She returned with two hot chocolates for herself and Robin, and two Italian ices, which the vendor was also selling, for the men.

Eventually, they foursome ambled back towards the car so they would have time to rest before getting ready for dinner that evening.

***

The friends decided to take an Uber downtown that evening, because Erin insisted that there would be wine. Robin and Strike descended the stairs of the garage apartment and found Erin and Chris waiting for the Uber in the driveway. Erin looked gorgeous in a black and gold cocktail dress. Chris looked equally dashing in navy trousers and a fitted blue and white checked shirt, open at the collar with no tie. The shirt strained over his muscles, and Robin found herself wondering how it didn’t rip at the seams. 

The four clambered into the Uber car together, and Strike soon wished that he had volunteered to drive them himself. The driver spent more time looking at her phone than the road. Once, Strike was tempted to grab the steering wheel, as the car veered alarmingly onto the shoulder. He tried not to think it, but it was experiences like this that cemented his prejudice against female drivers.

The car dropped them off at a charming block of low brick buildings in downtown Tulsa, which Robin recognized as the area they had first had lunch after arriving, and Strike clambered gratefully from the front seat of the deathtrap. He extended a hand and helped Robin from the backseat, then tucked her hand into his elbow.

“This is the Brady Arts District,” Erin explained. “It’s kind of the posh, hipstery area.”

Chris leaned into Strike and whispered, “That translates to expensive.”

Erin overheard, and rolled her eyes. “It’s not _all_ expensive. Besides, I didn’t hear you complaining when you wanted to go to Prhyme…”

They walked a short distance along the sidewalk that was littered with green rental scooters, to a glass fronted bar. There was a small circular sign above the door featuring what looked like a battle helmet, the name Valkyrie inscribed above it.

The inside was covered in warm, brown wood and aged brick. Modern, industrial light fixtures hung from the ceiling over the long bar and soft leather booths. In the front of the bar by the large windows were a few aged and sagging sofas. The shelves behind the bar were packed floor to ceiling with a wide array of high quality liquor.

“You like Scotch?” Chris asked.

“Yeah, I do,” Strike said.

“They have an excellent selection here,” Chris said as he snagged one of the sofas by the window.

Erin picked up a drink menu from the low coffee table and handed it to Strike, who was pleased to find several pages of whisky. Realizing there wasn’t another menu, he tried to hand it back to her so the women could choose their drinks.

“Keep it, I’ll get another,” she said, and strode up to the bar to ask for another menu.

She sat on the sofa next to Robin to show her her favorite drinks. 

“They do this thing where they’ll create a cocktail for you. You just tell them what you like, give them a few of these descriptor words, and they’ll surprise you with something,” Erin explained.

Robin was a little overwhelmed after flipping briefly through the extensive cocktail list, so she decided to try a surprise drink. A waiter came over to take their orders and Robin asked for something “light, playful, and floral.” The waiter asked her a few more questions, such as what kind of alcohol she likes and secondary flavors she would like. 

Strike found the whisky menu similarly overwhelming. Some varieties were over fifty dollars a glass. He settled for a glass of Arran instead, while Chris chose the Glenfarclas 21 year. 

When their drinks arrived, the waiter explained Robin’s drink to her, but she zoned out after about the fifth ingredient or so. Whatever it was, it was delicious, and exactly as she had requested – light, playful, and floral. Erin had requested sweet, tropical, and bright. Her drink looked entirely too “girly” for Robin’s tastes, but Erin’s eyes widened and she hummed appreciatively at her first sip.

As they enjoyed their drinks, Erin pulled a small package out of her bag and handed it to Strike.

“You didn’t have to do that. Really, I think you’ve done enough already,” he said as he ripped open the paper, revealing a small box of high quality cigars. “Thank you! These look great.”

Robin also produced a small package from her bag. He opened the box and found a plastic figurine of Cormoran the Cornish Giant. Strike threw his head back and released a loud guffaw.

“I love it, thank you,” and leaned over to give Robin a lingering kiss.

Their drinks almost finished, Chris looked at his watch and announced that they should leave soon to make their reservation. Draining the last of his whisky, Chris stood and offered Erin a hand to help her up.

“Don’t we need to pay first?” Robin asked.

Chris shook his head, “Already taken care of.”

“Oh, thank you.” Robin hadn’t even noticed a bill arrive. 

They walked around to the next block of almost identical buildings, to Prhyme Steakhouse. Strike was glad he had opted for a suit. The restaurant oozed elegance and class, with cream colored leather booths and dark ebony walls. The rear wall of the restaurant was an elegant stonework of cream and gray. Over the booths were large dome lights, encased in black metal slatted shades. The overall effect echoed the semi-industrial vibe of the rest of the Brady Arts district, but in a much more elegant manner.

Chris picked up the wine list and asked, “Do you all have a preference on wine? I like a Cab Franc, myself.”

“No, that’s great,” Strike said. 

When the waiter appeared to take their drink orders, Chris asked for a bottle of Cab Franc to be decanted, and a bottle of burgundy to start with. Robin had never seen anyone ask for a wine decanted at a restaurant, even with Matthew’s pretentious friends, which made it all the more surprising coming from the seemingly unrefined ex-marine. 

Strike was pleased that the general pushy, rushed atmosphere of American restaurants didn’t seem to carry over to the nicer establishments. Though looking at the menu, it seemed the improvement to service didn’t come without an exorbitant price.

“Are we getting an appetizer?” Erin asked, and Chris gave her a look that said “how is that even a question?”

“Fried escargot, for sure,” Chris said. 

“Fried? That sounds interesting, I’ve never had them fried,” Robin said as she took a sip of her burgundy. 

“Oh, they’re amazing. Everything here is amazing,” Erin added.

She was right. Sometime later, the waiter brought out a small pile of the little fried delicacies. They were soft and tender, with an amazingly rich butter flavor, and the crispy fried coating created a nice crunchy contrast.

When they were a good way down their glasses of wine, the waiter came back to take their orders. Both women ordered the small filet, Erin getting the sweet corn bisque to start, and Robin a Caesar salad. Chris talked Strike into the twenty-two ounce wagyu steak, which was meant to be shared. They also ordered sautéed mushrooms, potato gratin, and brussels sprouts for the table.

By the time their salad and soup plates had been cleared and fresh wine glasses were brought for the change in bottle, Robin was already feeling somewhat full. But then her filet arrived, artfully plated with mashed parsnips and hericots verts. Her steak was a perfect medium rare, and despite already being reasonably full, she ate every bit. Strike gave her a bite of his wagyu steak, which was tender and delicious, but definitely too rare for her tastes. The wine Chris had chosen was exquisite, and paired perfectly with the steak. 

Erin announced that they were taking Strike for birthday dessert somewhere else, so all four friends declined offers of chocolate mousse and crème brulee. Strike was a little concerned about seeing the final bill, but reasoned that he was actually getting off fairly cheap for a foreign holiday, considering the Waters had paid for their airfare and given them a place to stay. He needn’t have worried though, because as before with their drinks, Chris had paid the tab without the others ever seeing it arrive. 

Strike hated to think how much his friends had just spent; his and Chris’s steak alone was over $130, not to mention the two bottles of wine, starters, and sides. But he was immensely grateful – this was one of the best birthdays he had ever had.

“Do you guys mind if we walk a bit? I’m a little too full for dessert just yet,” Chris asked, mainly concerned for the women in their heels. 

“I’m fine,” Robin said. “We walk a lot more than this all the time in London.”

Erin turned excitedly to her husband. “Oh! Let’s take them to The Center of the Universe!”

“What’s that?” Robin asked, wondering if she was possibly referring to some kind of nightclub.

“It’s just up here,” Erin exclaimed, nearly bouncing up and down with excitement and softly clapping her hands. “I don’t know why it’s called The Center of the Universe, but it’s this weird acoustical thing. Have you ever been in like a domed building, where if you stand in a certain spot you can hear someone whispering?”

Both detectives shook their heads. Strike said, “No, but I’ve heard of that.”

“Well, this is kind of the reverse of that,” Erin explained. “There’s a spot up here where whatever you say echoes back to you. It’s really cool.”

Erin led them down the sidewalk past an art gallery with floor to ceiling to windows. There was a wide variety of art on display, from abstract to colorful renditions of some Tulsa icons she recognized, such as the Golden Driller. In her few years of living in London, Robin had never seen an actual art gallery. Though she knew they did in fact exist, and one of their cases had even involved an art gallery, she had always thought of them as something that only existed in movies and on TV, not in reality. It was odd, then, that she would come across her first one here, in the last place she expected to find culture and sophistication. 

The crossed the street and after a short distance came to a wide sloping promenade lined with trees, concrete alcoves with benches, and subtle landscaping. The promenade bridged over old train tracks, another example of Tulsa’s habitat of combining the old with the new, the upscale with the abandoned. In the center of the bridge was a very large black metal pillar, topped with what looked like a black cloud.

Despite the occasional graffiti and teenager zooming past on an electric scooter, the walkway was charming and romantic. The trees still contained some yellowed leaves which rustled soothingly in the light breeze. The temperature had dropped significantly and Robin pressed closer into Strike’s side, seeking his warmth. 

“Do you want my jacket?” he murmured, rubbing a firm hand up and down her arm, the friction warming her skin.

“No, I’m probably fine. I don’t know why I didn’t bring a jacket. It was just so warm earlier so I didn’t think about it.”

In the center of the bridge was a large circular area surrounded by concrete benches. The stone walkway was stylized with brick into a swirling pattern that culminated in the center with a small circle of brick. There was already a couple standing in the center of the circle, locked in each other’s eyes, whispering to each other. Strike wrapped Robin in his embrace as they waited for the couple to finish. The warm smell of Narciso filled his senses and he dropped his face to her neck, his stubble scratching pleasingly along her skin. Robin shivered against him, only partially from the cold. Strike took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders, Robin gratefully tucking her arms into the warm sleeves.

The other couple moved on then, so Strike and Robin stepped up to take their turn. Strike slid his hands inside the jacket and around her waist as Robin wound her arms around his neck.

“Happy Birthday, to you!” Robin sung quietly. It echoed strangely back to them, drawing a grin across Strike’s face. 

“I thought I told you I didn’t want anyone singing,” he said, with a little bit of cheek.

“I thought I would be the exception.”

“You’re exceptional, alright.”

Robin arched against him and dug her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“You’re the most exceptional woman I’ve ever met. I love you Robin, more than I ever thought was possible.”

His sweet words echoed back to her from all directions, a thousand times over. “I love you too,” she murmured, inclining her head for a kiss, which he eagerly granted.

“Yo!” Chris called, “Let someone else have a turn!”

Strike made a rude gesture with his hand, but ended the kiss nonetheless. Some teenagers were waiting impatiently nearby, so Erin and Chris skipped their turn, having already experienced it. 

“Remember being all lovey dovey?” Erin asked Chris. “I miss that.”

“I’m flattered you’re jealous,” he said flatly, but wrapped an arm around her waist, his fingers lightly squeezing her hip.

They walked back along the promenade in the direction they had come, and continued on past the art gallery to Glacier Confections.

The inside of the chocolate shop had the appearance of a converted warehouse, which seemed to be the standard décor of the area. The room was divided by worn concrete columns; the walls were aged brick covered in modern art paintings that were for sale. The back of the shop appeared to be the kitchen, which was covered with large machines and was encased in glass. The modern equipment was an interesting contrast to the otherwise weathered interior. A long glass counter stretched around the shop, loaded with different kinds of chocolate truffles and cakes. Erin selected an elegant looking shiny red dessert ball, called a Gingerbread Bomb. Chris selected a lemon tart, and Strike and Robin decided to share a slice of the towering Chocolate Truffle Cake. 

The cake was moist, and fudgy, and decadent. Robin could manage only a few bites, it was so rich, but Strike was soon scraping the plate clean. The chocolate truffles on top of the cake were the best either of them had ever had, and so they bought a small assorted box before leaving. Robin was most looking forward to trying the peppercorn rose flavor. 

Chris ordered an Uber while they were buying the box of truffles, and the four piled into the car, somewhat more uncomfortably than last time, as they were now all so full. Robin was feeling sleepy from all the wine, but she was looking forward to giving Strike his final present, which she tucked into her suitcase.

Back upstairs in the garage apartment, Robin emerged from the bathroom wearing navy blue satin and lace. Strike was instantly flooded with warmth and desire, watching his gorgeous partner saunter towards him. She straddled his lap and he smoothed his hands across her backside, the satin sliding pleasantly across her skin. 

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“I love it. But then, you could be wearing a burlap sack and I’d still love it.” He traced kisses across her sternum and up her neck, settling in just below her ear.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered.

Robin made to pull the satin negligee over her head, but his hand on her wrist stopped her.

“Leave it on,” he murmured and captured her mouth with his, her tongue tasting of chocolate and wine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are the places they enjoy:  
> [ Philbrook Museum of Art](https://philbrook.org/)  
> [ The Gathering Place](https://www.gatheringplace.org/)  
> [ Valkyrie](http://valkyrietulsa.com/)  
> [ Prhyme Steakhouse](https://www.prhymetulsa.com/)  
> [ Center of the Universe](https://www.uncoveringoklahoma.com/tulsa/the-center-of-the-universe/)  
> [ Glacier Confection](https://www.glacierchocolate.com/)


	5. Happy Thanksgiving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this a day early because I probably won't have time tomorrow. 
> 
> Strikesgiving prompts 19-23, 26-28, & 30 (some of these are out of order)  
> I wasn't ready  
> Let it go  
> Do you really mean it  
> People will talk  
> I don't think so  
> Stay behind me  
> I'm trying my best  
> How much do you know  
> Of course I remembered

Robin and Strike spent the next few days eating and drinking their way through Tulsa, and enjoying fellowship with their friends. Chris saddled Butter so that Robin could ride him around the paddock. Strike thought she looked adorable sitting astride the gorgeous horse in her tight jeans and sweater. She smiled and laughed, and Strike marveled at how luck he was to have this amazing woman in his life. And suddenly he was struck with a sudden clarity, that that was exactly what he wanted – Robin, in all parts of his life. For the rest of his life.

***

Wednesday was largely spent helping to prepare for the Thanksgiving meal. Robin was amazed at how much food was being prepared, especially since they were only expecting a party of six – the four already present, plus Chris’s sister and brother-in-law; Erin’s parents were spending the holiday with her brother in Denver. 

Strike and Robin made their way to the large house a little early on Thursday to finish helping with the preparations. Chris came downstairs wearing a pair of sweatpants. Erin saw him and put her hands on her hips, looking irritated.

“No. I don’t think so,” she gestured to his attire.

“What? They’re my Thanksgiving pants,” Chris said.

Erin gave him an exasperated look, shook her head, and wandered back into the kitchen. Chris grinned at Strike and Robin, but went back upstairs to change into jeans.

Chris’s sister and brother-in-law arrived around noon, bringing even more food with them. After the newcomers had deposited their casserole dishes in the kitchen, they entered the living room to be introduced to the foreign guests.

“This is my sister, Ashlyn, and my brother-in-law,” Chris began, but was cutoff as the other man extended a hand to Robin.

“Hello, I am Running Bull.” He shook Robin’s hand and then Strike’s. His grip was firm, but he leaned away from them slightly, as if he didn’t want to get closer. He didn’t return Robin’s warm smile, but rather gazed at them somberly.

Running Bull had smooth dark skin the color of burnt caramel. His dark eyes, slightly sunken behind high, full cheeks, had that piercing quality that made Robin feel as if she were being x-rayed. He was wearing a black cowboy hat, snug fitting jeans with a large golden belt buckle, and a salmon colored western shirt with pearl snap buttons. A scroll design in blue, rose, and black was embroidered on the front and back of each shoulder. His boots were black and silver snake skin, with a small metal flourish around the pointed toe. Robin assumed this was supposed to be a “dressy” outfit, though it looked out of place next to her royal blue wrap dress. Or perhaps _she_ was the one who looked out of place.

“So you’re the ones from England,” he said, his piercing gaze seemingly scrutinizing them both. “How’s Oklahoma treating you?”

Running Bull’s voice was soft and melodious, and Robin thought she detected an odd accent. He had a strange way of speaking in which his mouth hardly moved, making him somewhat hard to understand. He still hadn’t smiled, which Robin found disconcerting. 

“We’ve had a lovely time,” Robin said. And she relayed some of the things they done and the places they had visited, and all the while Running Bull watched her with his piercing gaze.

“We haven’t made it up the Gathering Place yet, but I’ve heard it’s nice. We don’t make it to town very often,” he said. 

Running Bull then turned to Chris, changing the direction of the conversation, “We brought you some beef.”

“Oh, excellent!” And Chris clapped his brother-in-law on the back.

“He’s a cattle rancher,” Chris explained to Strike and Robin. “Because he couldn’t think of a more stereotypical career choice.”

“How am I a stereotype?” Running Bull asked, amused.

“Everyone thinks Oklahoma is nothing but cowboys and Indians, and then here you are…” Chris gestured up and down the man’s body.

“Yes, but they’re expecting everyone to be _either_ cowboys _or_ Indians, not both. So therefore, I am not a stereotype. Besides, I remember a time when you didn’t think being a cowboy was such a bad thing. How many belt buckles do you have again?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Chris said, playfully shoving Running Bull, who had finally cracked a smile.

“Belt buckles?” Strike asked. “I don’t think I get the reference.”

Ashlyn chimed in, her eyes twinkling. “Chris used to be a _cowboy._ Competed in the rodeo circuit and everything.” Strike and Robin were still looking a bit lost, so she added, “You win belt buckles instead of trophies or medals.

“One time, when he was, what? 17? he was in the state finals and,” Ashlyn was overcome with a fit of giggles, “He fell off his horse right at the start.” She found it hard to continue through her laughter. “And that horse drug him all the way around the ring! Oh, it was hilarious. Everyone called him Dusty for ages.”

Everyone laughed and Chris’s ears turned red, the memory obviously still a little too fresh in his mind. “I wasn’t ready yet! Will you let it go?”

“I will if you give us a demonstration,” his sister teased.

“No fuckin’ way!”

“That’s okay, I have plenty of other stories I can entertain your guests with,” Ashlyn said wickedly.

Chris narrowed his eyes at his sister, “You don’t really mean that.”

“Give us a demonstration, or I’ll tell everyone about that time at Tumbleweeds when you made out-“

Chris clapped a hand over her mouth, “Alright, alright. You just keep that one to yourself. I can’t believe you even remember that, considering you were drunker than skunk.”

Ashlyn giggled, “Of course I remember. It’s not every day you see your brother making out with a-“

“Hey, ah, uh-uh!” Chris shouted over her. “You win, just let me go get my stuff ready. And keep your mouth shut in the meantime.” They heard him mutter, “People will talk,” as he strode out the backdoor and towards Butter’s barn.

A short while later, after checking on the turkey, Chris announced that he was ready. They followed him over to Butter’s paddock, where he had set up some hay bales, and an old saddle in an obstacle course of sorts. He finished by putting some empty cans on top of the fence.

“Okay, stay behind me,” he said as he picked up a long rope with a lasso on the end.

He twirled the rope in front of him, making the lasso wider. Then after twirling it above his head, he slung the rope out and it caught around the saddle. Strike and Robin clapped, but Running Bull said, “That’s child’s play, come on you can do better than that.”

Chris cocked an eyebrow at him, as if to say, “challenge accepted.” He flicked the rope, releasing it from the saddle and drawing it back to him. He twirled it in front of him again to widen the loop, then passed the rope around his body, the loop rolling up and over his shoulder. Making the loop wider still, he tossed it up over his head, allowing the loop to drop over his body and back up again. He then twirled the rope beside him, and jumped through the loop horizontally as he passed it back over his body. He finished by flicking the rope out and lassoing one of the fence posts.

The onlookers clapped, and Running Bull nodded, apparently satisfied. Ashlyn, however, wasn’t. “But can you still do it mounted?” she teased. 

Chris again cocked an eyebrow and whistled to Butter. The horse came running, and Chris pulled himself up into the saddle while the animal was still mid-stride. He settled himself in the saddle easily and kicked Butter into a run. He flicked the rope at the cans, easily knocking them off the fence. Without losing a beat, he circled the rope around his head and threw it over the hay bale, easily lassoing it. He pulled another rope from his saddle, fastened a knot while Butter was still galloping and made a hard turn back towards the other objects. He twirled the rope to his side and threw it at the old saddle as he passed, easily snaring the saddle horn. He slowed Butter to a trot and rode up to his small audience, looking smug.

“How’s that for a city slicker?” he shot at his brother-in-law, who chuckled.

“Not bad, not bad. At least you stayed on your horse this time,” the other man teased back.

***

By the time Chris got everything put back away, lunch was ready. The table was loaded with enough food for twenty people, with mashed potatoes, turkey, gravy, stuffing, brussel sprouts, rolls, and cranberry sauce, which had the unappealing appearance of being straight from a can and jiggled slightly.

As they sat at the table, Chris joked, “It’s just like the First Thanksgiving. We have Brits and Indians.”

Robin chuckled, “Sorry if this is rude, but isn’t ‘Indian’ not… politically correct?”

“Well, if you want to get technical,” Running Bull explained, “Native American isn’t correct either, considering America was named after a European. Really the only correct term would be our actual tribal names, but that’s far too complicated.”

“What tribe are you from?” Strike asked.

“Seminole. It’s one of the smaller ones.”

“Stuffing?” Erin asked as she passed a dish to Strike, distracting him.

“What’s ‘stuffing’? Has it been… _stuffed_ in something?” he asked.

“Well, some people do stuff the turkey with it – it’s traditional – but you can’t actually eat it if it’s been stuffed in the turkey,” Erin explained.

“Oh? Why not?” Robin asked.

“Something about not reaching the proper temperature, unsafe to eat, I don’t know. Probably just some kill-joy trying to take everyone’s fun away,” Chris chimed in.

“Anyway,” Erin said, “It’s like a bread pudding, but savory. It can be a little mushy, but I like mine a little crispy on top with large chunks of bread.”

Strike laughed, “You had me at ‘pudding.’”

“Running Bull, would you like some potatoes?” Robin asked, passing the dish around.

Erin choked and spluttered on her wine, dissolving into a fit of laughing coughs. Chris chuckled and slapped her on the back, trying to help end her coughing fit. 

“You told them your name is _Running Bull_?” she choked out between more coughs, wiping at her streaming eyes.

Robin looked at Running Bull, who was wearing what could only be described as a shit-eating grin, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“My name _is_ Running Bull,” he said.

Erin rolled her eyes and replied sardonically, “Sorry, I didn’t know we were calling you that now.” She turned to Robin and Strike and said flatly, “His name is Brian.”

Robin and Strike both looked around the table in confusion. Chris, who had earned a “why are you picking on our guests” glare from his wife, explained. “Running Bull is his Indian name. His actual name is Brian.”

“We have ceremonial names,” Running Bull, or rather, _Brian_ , explained. “But we don’t actually use them. It’s just a traditional thing. All my family are something-Bull. I was named after my great-grandfather.”

“I can think of a great name for you that involves ‘bull,’” Chris teased.

Robin tried some of everything, even the sweet potatoes, which for some reason had marshmallows on top. She ate a few bites to be polite, but definitely couldn’t understand the combination. Chris kept piling food onto Strike’s plate, evidently determined to see who could eat more, which seemed to be the entire purpose of the holiday.

When the plates were cleared, Chris declared a “football break” until it was time for dessert. Strike knew absolutely nothing about American football, so Chris and Brian tried to explain it to him. By halftime, Strike was still none the wiser. While they were waiting for the second half of the game to start, Erin served everyone pumpkin pie with whipped cream. 

Strike was painfully full. Everything had been delicious, except for the sweet potatoes. His belt was feeling a little tight, and he found himself wishing he could change into some “Thanksgiving pants,” as Chris put it. He was glad, then, that the post-dinner activities seemed to consist entirely of napping on the sofa.

***

That evening, they went to a large church in Broken Arrow, a suburb of Tulsa, for their “Lights On” Christmas light ceremony. Erin promised it was the largest display of Christmas lights in town. It was just after dark as the huge crowd of people gathered. The crowd counted down from ten, and suddenly twinkling lights blazed to life. 

The grounds were covered in thousands and thousands of lights, with sparkling orbs hanging from the trees. There was a small pond with a charming gazebo. Strike pulled Robin inside so he could steal a kiss, but was quickly interrupted by excited children. Robin grabbed his hand and pulled him down the path, looking for somewhere more secluded. They reached a somewhat darker portion of the grounds, and Strike pulled her behind a tree.

“I don’t think this is exactly private either,” she teased, as another couple passed them.

“I’m trying my best here,” he chuckled.

Strike wrapped his arms around Robin’s waist, his hands resting in the small of her back. 

“I love you,” he murmured against her lips.

“I know,” Robin teased back.

“How _much_ do you know?” Strike asked, pulling back to look in her eyes.

“Maybe I should show you,” Robin said as she stood up on her tippy toes to capture his lips once more.


End file.
